The Machine God Rises!
by Diem S. Sky
Summary: A sheltered witch, a nihilistic duelist, and a man searching to find out who, or what, he truly is, embark on an epic journey together when dark fates lead them to a chance encounter with one another. Very slow romance subplot. Mainly action/adventure/character development.
1. Chapter 1: Meene

Zerail, City of Metals. That is what they call my hometown—or to be more accurate, I should call it my city. Zerail is large, the largest mechanized and modern inland city this era has known. The streets of my hometown are littered with Golemns, both undead of alchemical variety, and mechanical golemns as well. Here the battle between the machine and the alchemist ever rages, albeit in a tacit and rarely violent way. It has been fifty years—half an entire century—since the introduction of the first machine to this land, and yet still alchemists complain about the smell of petroleum, the whirring of gears that sound tirelessly in the background, no matter where you go in Zerail. Doubtless they are jealous of the mastery of creation that programmers have gained over them. Never has a mechanical golemn ever rebelled against it's master-they cannot rebel. And yet there have been countless cases of golemns that have been embued with a soul via some unnatural means—golemns that have risen up against their masters and become truly fearsome.

I...I love the whir of the machine. I have loved it ever since I was a little boy, playing with gears and windup toys. That said, I don't much care for golemns. Then again, perhaps that is because I don't care much for their creators. I don't like the human race, although I am a part of it. Perhaps deep down I want to be like one of those mechanized golemns, but without a master. My own master. Strange isn't it? But it's true. Ever since I was young, I have wanted to be soulless. Emotions such as guilt, or sadness, or even happiness seem trivial and unimportant to me. Indeed, the only emotions I have ever acknowledged within myself as being worthwhile are intrigue, respect, and the feeling of thrill. Intrigue at new weapons and machinery, new tools that I can learn to help me grow stronger. Respect given to the pursuits I follow. And of course, the thrill of battle.

The machine I love, the machine I listen to most, is the steady whirring of the whetter, a sharp object attached to a pivot and a spring. The spring is fueled by the potential energy coming from hot air coming at it in short, concentrated bursts, making it oscillate rapidly...no, that is an understatement. At ten cycles a second, to be precise. The spring pushes the pivot and the whetter falls, shearing whatever lies in it's path. This is the machine that I use to make blades. It is fast, efficient, and allows one to focus more on thinking about what kind of blade to make.

Traditional swordsmen hate the whetter. They think swords have souls of their own—what a joke. If a sword had a soul, then I would not use it. Souls are unreliable. Souls are weak, they can be won, they can be conditioned, they can be tamed. All my life, ever since I was born, I have been uncompromising. I do not know why. I do not know what made me apart from my brethren, but I am indeed apart. So I make blades, all day, and I sell them to make a living. Strange blades, outlandish blades, traditional blades, you name it. Soulless blades. Blades that are reliable, that bend when you want them to, and at no other time. My creations are flexible, and yet unshakable, a work of true beauty. That is what I consider the sword to be. People say that a sword should be an extension of your soul. But I say otherwise. Let the sword you wield be the idealization of a soul. Let it be a machine that stays true always to itself.

"Nice to see you today, Meene!"

"Looking good, Meene!"

"Oh, Meene, still up to your old tricks I see!"

A million familiar faces passed the pale skinned youth at the bazaar as he sat calmly, eyes half closed, chewing a twig and staring at the sky. An hour had already passed. In front of him lay a plethora of swords, knives, gauntlets, weapons of all varieties. A weapon seller, a blacksmith of the modern age. That is what he was. And usually, business was booming. But not today. _Perhaps I should blame it on the day,_ Meene thought, the corner of his plain expression twitching. It was a grey day, overcast, the bazaar standing in the shadow of the sky. _It is not a day when people leave their houses...on instinct, I guess._ Meene shook his head.

"Meene!" And opened his eyes to see a short brunette human girl of about thirteen or fourteen standing in front of him, twirling her skirt. "I bought it just now! Well? What do you think, Meene!"

"Stop saying my name all the time." Meene scowled. "And wash clothes after you buy them. You never know where a seller procures his items from. That skirt could have been made by a mountain troll, for all you know."

"As if," laughed the girl. "You're just jealous of my beauty. Me-eene."

Her name was Aricine and she was perhaps the only person that ever talked to Meene without being on edge. Meene never had figured out why she was so comfortable around him. Everyone else liked him well enough, but were always on edge, always guarded, when it came to close one on one interactions with him. Even his stepfather and stepmother. Like Meene, Aricine was an orphan, but as she was an outsider, and never knew her mother and father, she was raised by foster parents—a kind enough troupe of actors that staged some of the best classy entertainment in the world. The Dancing Monkeys. This troupe of actors were so famous that they never needed to travel—people came from all over the world to see their plays, listen to their humor, and watch their dancing. And the patrons were always aristocrats with enough wealth to go around.

"How's the Count?" Meene asked uninterestedly. The truth was that he had always found a strange interest, almost an obsession, with the leader of the Dancing Monkeys, the Count. Man or woman, human or not, no one knew anything about the Count, except for perhaps his or her height. They assumed he was male, but his voice was transgender at best, and he hid his face behind a grinning white mask. He always appeared before performances in his characteristic red and white striped tophat and striped matching tuxedo. Rumor had it that the Count was a vampire, and that every night after a performance, he would choose the poorest patron and have him or her for dinner.

Meene doubted this story very much. The few times he had been over at the Dancing Monkey's headquarters to hand deliver custom blades they ordered, he had never sensed a dangerous vibe from their leader. An eerie, uncomfortable feeling perhaps, but not dangerous. The Count was no predator—he couldn't be. No, Meene was interested in the Count because of another reason. He had a memory of when he was young—very young. Back when his parents were still alive. A memory of his father, a blacksmith, sitting and chatting with a tall, eerie looking man with short spiky white hair and luminescent pale skin, wearing a red tophat. Meene didn't know who the man was. He didn't remember the specific time of the memory—only that he must have been barely a toddler, peeking out from behind a half shut door at the two men talking in the night. Was it the Count? Meene was not one to jump to conclusions, so he simply watched, and waited.

"You always ask about him," Aricine pouted. "It is never about me, is it Mee-eene." The white haired youth shook his head uninterestedly. "Well then!" Aricine straightened up, smiling at him. "I need a dagger."

"A dagger? Why?"

"Colman's dagger broke yesterday. You know, the act of the play where he throws the knife?"

"Oh. Will any ordinary dagger do? Does he want a homing dagger? He might need it—he didn't ever seem all that good to me."

"Hmph!" Aricine turned away, pouting. "Colman is a master thrower, I will have you know!"

"I-is he now..." Meene put a hand behind his head, laughing weakly. A memory of the barrel chested, bald, brown skinned man flashed before him. What a clown. He belonged in a circus moreso then in a troupe of actors. He reached into a red bin and took out a dagger and a leather sheath, handing it to Aricine. "For free," he told her. "As compensation for my harsh words."

"S-say, Meene..." Aricine fidgeted, blushing a little. "D-do you want to go on a date..."

"Grow a foot taller." Meene smiled up at the girl. "Maybe in a couple years, okay?"

"Hmph. Meene only likes girls with large chests."

"W-what makes you say that, Aricine?"

The day ended. Sunset. Aricine had long since departed, and apart from a few ragtag travelers that had stopped to buy standard gear for the rain, no one had come to buy his wares. _I'm going to train now,_ he decided. _I think I've stared at the sky for long enough._ Most fighters trained at the temple. Some trained in fields, some at home. But Meene preferred his underground smithy over any other place. It was cramped, but there the smell of metal reigned supreme. There the hammer fell mechanically, over and over, pounding away, the drum of determination, nonstop, the ideal beating of a heart. There the heat was so intense that every action was a thousand times harder then normal. So that was where he trained.

Every day, like today, as dusk turned to night, the lanky youth went to the smithy and took up one of the hundreds of swords laying scattered about in their scabbards, and started to dance the sword dance. One sword, and then another, and then another, sword after sword pulled used, tossed and picked up again, over and over, in cyclic pattern. Thrust, horizontal slash, dodge, parry and discard, and step two steps right, unsheathe the closest sword, and twirl and slash, and dodge, and discard. Sword after sword used, different sizes, different lengths, shapes, nothing was the same, except the hot metal in his hands. But he had mastered them all.

Meene leapt into the air, breathing hard, and twirling a twilight gladius in the firelight. He slashed at a hanging shortsword, cutting thrice as metal clanged against metal, and then he let the gladius fly, gliding with its motion to his right, unsheathing the katana beside him. One, two, one two, vertical strikes to the head, crying 'men', the japanese word for 'head', and then he struck horizontally, sprinting forward. Perfect motion. With axe kick, he ended his attack, tossing his sword and jumping back a couple steps.

No more swords left unsheathed. The dance was over, Meene realized. He checked his watch. Twenty minutes. That was how long it had taken him this time to complete the infinite sword dance, a technique he had invented, wild and extraordinary, utilizing every one of at least a hundred weapons in perfect timing and synchronization. He slumped against one of the wooden pillars holding up his smithy. _Not good enough,_ he thought. _Twenty minutes, and the pivot when I picked up the eighty third sword was broke my tempo completely. I had to stop my motion for a whole second and scan my surroundings before continuing. A failure in every way._ He crawled over to his water bottle and poured some water over his face. _I thought I would have mastered this by now. I thought I would be able to dance with a hundred swords in ten minutes, with no break in rhythm. But everything is so far from complete!_


	2. Chapter 2 : Selene Familgia

_Authors Note: Last chapter we saw Meene, the main character of the story. This chapter, in a town not so far away, we meet the second main character. The introduction to a great adventure continues._

 _The City of Metals is not surrounded by nature. Once it used to be, but no longer. Now it is surrounded by rocks, jagged and bare, all vegetation stripped from the bones of the land, leaving it raw and exposed. But the city is small, and the forests that existed before were, and still are, vast in their expanse. And so, some forty miles away from Zerail, lies a small grove within the ring of woodlands surrounding the wasteland around the city._

"It's Selene, the Wise."

"Selene the Just."

"Selene the Courageous."

Whispers passed through the backwater town of TreeTop Gardens. Well, TreeTop Gardens wasn't exactly a town. It was more of a haven for good hearted people who had decided to drop out from life. Farmers, some of them were, content to live off the rich land, without owning too much or wanting for too much. Others were huntsmen, disenchanted with the cruelty of the world, that had come to the Gardens in order to live a secluded life. The population of the town could not have been any more then a hundred at most, and what bound them all together was the witches.

Two witches had settled in the town—no, perhaps it was best to say they had been there before the town was ever created. Though relatives, they could not have looked more different. Both were old women, though one never left the small cottage to the north, on the outskirts of the Gardens. The few who had seen her knew her as fair skinned, and though she had many a wrinkle she wore her age well. She was slender and delicate, her long, white hair tied in a loose knot at the top of her head with a grass woven string. Her eyes were a brilliant violet color, betraying her magic-induced blindness (though none knew her backstory). But her face was always cracked into a kind smile,

On the other hand, the witch that frequented the town was old and hideous. Warts covered her face, and fungus grew on the tip of her hooked nose. Her mouth was often red, and as she spoke blood dripped from her jaws. She had a small goatee on her chin which she stroked all the time, and she wore all black, in contrast to her relative's white cotton garments. In looks, they could not be more different. However, contrary to her appearance, Selene, the warty witch, was also quite a nice person. She was always eager to help out someone in need, and often settled many town disputes (not that there were many to begin with) in a fair, peaceful, and relatively noninvasive manner. Though put off by her appearance at first, the town had eventually warmed up to their old witch, calling her by nicknames such as Selene the Just, and so on and so forth.

Another peculiarity—though old beyond measure, Selene's voice was that of a young girl. This quality was very offputting to most of the townspeople, but they thought nothing of it, blaming the quirk on some past magical potion that she must accidentally have imbued. Or something like that. The Familgia Sisters, they were called, for that was the last name the two relatives shared.

"What brings you here today, Miss Selene," the balding man standing at the meat stand wheezed.

The witch looked at him with her beady aquamarine irises. "I come for a cow," she croaked. Or at least, tried to croak. But her voice simply sounded too young, and came off more amusing than croaky. The man in front of her tried not to laugh, knowing her skills to be real, and forcing himself to understand the very viable possibility that laughing at a powerful witch may have gotten him turned into a toad before he could blink. The hideous witch seemed disappointed with both her voice, and his reaction, and tried again. "I repeat, I come for a cow!" Selene started to cough, and it was plain to see that imitating a raspy voice really took a toll on her vocal cords.

The old butcher put his hand on Selene's shoulder to steady her, slight worry clouding his brow.

"Silence!" Croaked Selene, and it seemed rather a real croak due to her vocal cords being so strained. "If you touch me again, I will turn you into a toad!"

"But I didn't say anything..." the butcher smiled worriedly.

"Hickory dickory dock," began the witch in a threatening manner, waving her finger around in circles. "The toad went round the clock!"

"I'm sorry," he said halfheartedly, knowing full well that no magical incantation could be so ridiculous. "Here." He heaved a cow up onto the flimsy stand from behind the counter. "That'll be forty silver, Miss Selene."

"Ah, okay," the deformed witch chirped happily, digging into her purse and pulling out four gold coins. "Thanks! James, right?"

"Ah, you remembered." The old man rubbed the back of his head, embarrassed. "It's an honor, Miss Selene."

"Hey, if you ever need anything, don't hesitate to call!" She gave him the most hideous smile she could muster, and he cringed slightly.

"Okay, thanks. Bye now, and come back soon."

"A witch always shows up unannounced," she called to him, starting to walk away...and then ran back to the counter, her face flushed. "Forgot to take the cow," she muttered quickly, heaving the animal onto her shoulders.

 _Strong witch,_ the old butcher mused, right before seeing the old lady collapse under the animal's giant weight.

"Aah," this is so annoying," Selene Familgia fumed, and started murmuring incoherent syllables quickly under her breath, In a matter of perhaps half a minute, the cow started to float gently above her. "Come on then, you dumb beast," she told the carcass. "Let's go." And the witch was off, large chunk of meat following placidly a couple paces behind her.

Now as Selene walked, the lush, tame greenery of the Gardens was ending, starting to be replaced and overrun by more wild branches, darker green, twisted vines with thorns and strange insects staring wide eyed into her beady eyes. The Northern Forest was the most dangerous of the four directions, for in the North the forest grew wild and thick, closer to the origin of the forest then any other part. It was in the North that the first tree in the forest had sprung to life, many, many ages ago, and since then almost every manner of creature had lived, or passed by, that original tree.

What lived there now, no one knew. Selene certainly didn't know, for Gene told her to never venture there.

"But why, Granny," she'd asked the old, white haired woman.

"Because," Gene had replied softly, her blind eyes staring past her sedentary granddaughter. "There are creatures there that do not wish to be disturbed, and it is our job to make sure their wish is fulfilled."

 _No use keeping my illusion spell on anymore,_ Selene thought wistfully. _No one to witness my witchy-ness._

And as the haggard old lady walked, she started to grow shorter and shorter. Her warts popped, and filthy green pus oozed out of them, but left no scars on her face. Her gnarled, knotted skin smoothed into the silky white texture of a young adolescent, and her small, beady blue eyes grew wider and less wrinkled until they became brilliant orbs of sapphire. Her short white hair under her black witch hat grew longer and more blue, almost matching the color of her eyes. Soon, the tall old hag had changed into a slight five foot tall girl in an oversized black cloak, with a hat that fell way over her happy-go-lucky expression. Selene was, in fact, fourteen years old.

The young girl came upon a small hedge. "Open sesame," she chirped excitedly. Nothing. Grumbling something inaudible to herself, she pushed the tall grasses aside and walked into an open space, a clearing that by all the laws of physics could not possibly have been there. Granny Gene had decided to use the spell long ago—a simple space concealment spell which made everything behind the hedge simple seem like a grove of trees, when in reality it was a space she had carefully lain out to be her home. In the middle of the grassy clearing was a small cottage made of old wood, so deep and red in color that it seemed almost like pure redwood. Impressive, then, that the cottage had been built from sturdy oak, and yet retained such a strong coloring. Indeed, if one looked closely at the cottage, one could see that everything about the cottage was colored vibrantly. The grass around it was a brilliant green, the windows painted a strong, yet profoundly subtle robin blue. Somehow, every time Selene looked at the scene it seemed, to her, to be a picture from a storybook. But that was Granny Gene—she could cast magic that was not seen. Simply felt.

"Mrreaow." A black cat brushed lazily through Selene's gown, past her leg.

"Death Reaper!" She knelt and hugged the small feline tightly with both hands.

"My name is Molly," the cat replied grumpily. Another of Gene's tricks. Apparently Molly had once been human, but upon her death, Gene had transmogrified her mind and spirit into the body of a nearby cat. Why someone would desire willingly to be reborn as a cat, Selene couldn't for the life of her understand. But Molly had replied simply, "I was afraid of death," and had left the story at that.

"But Molly is such a boring name," Selene protested. "We're witches, Molly. And as the symbolic black cat for witches, you need to have a more witchy name. Now as I've said before, Death Reaper would be—"

"Ridiculous," Molly finished, yawning.

"And, and, and," Selene continued, curls bouncing, "You promised that you'd get Gene to agree to making the password to opening the hedge 'open sesame'! It's such a classic phrase, simple and yet potent."

"You know what's simple and potent," Molly replied. "Just not having a password! Like the way things are now."

"You're no fun," the young witch responded, patting Molly angrily on the head. But unable to resist the sleek feline, she rubbed her face into Molly's stomach, flipping her over. "Aww, you're so adorable," she cooed happily.

The small cat broke free of her grip, staggering a couple paces away from the girl, and hissed menacingly. Selene stood up, undaunted. "Well, shall we go in?"

A million words would not be enough to express the magic within the cottage. There wasn't a speck of dirt marring the clean and yet earthly feel of the place. There was dirt, yes. Literal dirt—soil from which plants grew near the window. But there was no dirt in the wrong places. The wooden floor and small pieces of furniture were completely...well, wooden, with nothing marring their sheer simplicity. The hearth blazed, fueled by magical flames that cast no heat, providing pure atmosphere and nothing else, for the day was warm enough as it was. The velvet sofa at the center of the room was not lush, but not too stiff. It looked, in some sense, exactly as a sofa should look. Rounded armrests, a wide back, and a slight tilt that could be used to rock back and forth if one so desired. The grass-woven carpets were just that, and yet they seemed so exotic on the deep red floor. In short, everything looked like the ideal image of exactly what it was. There was no sofa more sofa-like then the one in the middle of the cottage, no floor more wooden then the one on which Selene and the small feline stood.

This was felt magic. Magic which was not cast specifically, but which simply existed, like an aura around great witches. How a witch acquired such a presence, no one really knew, but one thing was certain. There was no way to learn felt magic. It simply came, imbuing everything around the witch with a flourish of texture, a kind of coloring that came straight from the witch's soul.

Selene approached the sofa. "Granny," she called softly, not knowing whether her grandmother was asleep or not.

"She's dreaming," Molly replied from across the room. She'd gone over to face the old woman sitting wide-eyed, face unmoving, unblinking, in the chair. "Or rather, seeing. She'll snap out of her Trance soon, I think. From the looks of things, it seems she's been Seeing for quite a while now."

"Seeing, huh." Selene sighed pensively. Her grandmother had the gift of foresight, and often saw glimpses of the future, or of the present in far off places. The former was known as Dreaming, whereas the latter was known as Seeing. Unfortunately, the gift had not shown itself in the younger witch. But her grandmother was never discouraged.

"Seeing comes with old age," she always told the teenager, patting her softly on the head.

"Is that a dead cow I smell." A calm, even, slightly tired voice from the sofa.

"Granny!" Selene ran around the sofa and sat in front of the kind looking old woman, looking up at her with wide eyes of admiration. She nodded her answer, and though she knew her grandmother was blind, she also knew that she could see Selene's affirmative nod, somehow, some way. And she was right.

"Good girl." The old woman reached out her withered, veiny hand, and Selene offered her head to be patted.

"So, what kind of magic will you be using it for, Granny?"

Molly snorted. It was a strange sight, seeing a cat snort, but Molly pulled off the gesture rather convincingly and naturally, so much so that even an average person in the room would not have been too startled.

"Magic? I will be showing you the greatest magic of all times, Sel." With a slight wave of her hand, the old woman summoned her walking stick, which came shooting over from the other side of the room into her hand. Caressing the wooden handle brought Granny Gene some sort of unknown, mysterious joy, for she smiled slightly. "The magic of cooking," she finished.

And although Selene would normally have been disappointed, the understated pride in her grandmother's voice made her far more excited.

"One day," her grandmother sighed, sensing the slight demotivation in Selene's demeanor, "you'll come to see exactly how deep the magic of cooking really is. Right now, you still believe in showiness, but magic is not all about the flash, my child. It's about depth. And heart." She sighed. "Well, do not fret." The smile once again returned to her face. "These things come with time."

Selene nodded, trying her best to understand why exactly flashiness was necessarily a bad thing. She knew everything her grandmother said was true, but she could not fathom the justification behind Granny Gene's claim. "A-anyways," she chirped, trying to change the subject, "what were you dreaming about, Granny?"

The old woman smiled mysteriously. "Dancing Monkeys," she replied, and said no more on the subject.

 _Authors Note : As a quick reminder, the Dancing Monkeys is the group of performers that raised Aricine, Meene's one friend._


	3. Chapter 3: Diem S Sky

_Authors Note: As can be guessed from my screen name, Diem S. Sky is the way I interact with my world. He the character I always play, and who best reflects me irl. But I made him middle aged because there was no other way for him to gain experience in D &D, and his past experiences symbolically reflect my own. Next chapter next Saturday!_

A man lay sprawled over in the sandy dunes, bleeding from a large gash near his heart. He didn't belong—not in the dunes, not on the ground, although no one around him knew the latter. But the fact that he was an outsider was clear from his skin color, a dusky grey hue, touched by the darkness of the Shadowfell. Shadar-Kai.

The man looked ageless. His face was long and gaunt, with some light stubble coating his cheeks. His sable black hair was short and slightly, naturally spiked from sweat. Gently now, he raised a slender hand, like the hand of a dancer, to his sallow cheeks, examining the bruise that had been left there by a tall, overly muscular northerner standing nearly fifteen or so paces from him, smiling triumphantly. His hand wandered over to his nose, the sides of which he grabbed and pulled on as he breathed in deeply.

It was a quirk of his—well, not a quirk, so much as a way he tried to calm himself down. His nose had been broken by a Horned Devil a few years ago when he was on a crazy adventure in the Nine Hells. Yes, Diem S. Sky had been there, in the Nine Hells, where few mortals had ventured, and from where even less had come out alive. He also had trained with the monks in the earlier part of his life, and had been taken in by the Battle Maidens and had trained with them as well, through strange circumstances. Although he looked to be no more than a shadar-kai of his early twenties, Diem was nearly fifty. But regular ki training gives a man increased longevity, and his many years with the Battle Maidens in the Vestal Lands hardly aged his body, due to the spell over the land that prevented age and decay from touching it's residents.

 _So what the fuck am I doing here,_ the Shadar-Kai asked himself? _I am doubtless stronger then that big hunk of meat, and yet he's slapping me around like I'm no big deal. Why?_ He honestly didn't know, but one thing was apparent. _I'm holding back._ In the skirmish against the Northerner, Diem hadn't used any techniques he had learned from the battle maidens. He hadn't used any ki techniques—hell, he hadn't even used his trademark fighting limb destruction fighting style, or the martial techniques he had developed on his own, such as his Absolute Shield. The only thing he had used in his 'fight' was a flimsy knife he had bought a couple of days ago.

Diem closed his eyes, feeling the hot sand gently massage his terse shoulder muscles. _Because I no longer have the desire to win,_ he admitted to himself. _Because I simply no longer have the will to get up. Because I am unhappy, and alone, and winning this battle will not change my situation._

It was not as though Diem S. Sky wanted some sort of romance in his life—that was not what he meant by being alone. Rather, he wanted to be near someone great again. Thanking the Battle Maidens, he had set out on a journey to defeat Razig Krali, the greatest swordsman in the world. But upon finding the undead swordsman, Diem realized the legendary warrior had no desire to fight him, famous though the rogue duelist had become in his own right. Razig was living with a human girl he had met in his travels, Ellyna, and they were raising a child together—a normal human child.

 _So such a thing is possible,_ Diem had mused back then. But more surprising than the child was the fact that the greatest swordsman in the world seemed content in a simple life with a happy family. This confused the duelist, and also made him see for the first time what he lacked. Happiness. He had a passion for fighting, he loved to learn new things, and adapt to challenges, and rise to them. But he was never happy, never satisfied to be in one place. Diem lived with, if not a hatred for all mankind, then a kind of cold ambivalence that bordered on dislike towards it.

Diem S. Sky had been in some relationships, but he never had felt comfortable in them. This was because, although he was not socially awkward, most of his social encounters required him to put on a fake, makeshift personality, in order to manipulate people to give him what he wanted. Diem preferred manipulation to fighting, because manipulation was cleaner, easier, and often more rewarding. But in a relationship, it was impossible to put on a makeshift personality. It was impossible to hide under layers upon layers of lies and pretenses like he usually did, because in intimate settings such things simply, well, didn't fly.

Then what was Diem S. Sky's true personality? Up until his meeting with Razig Krali, Diem S. Sky had never been too concerned with his 'true personality', and with trying to find it. But after saying goodbye to Razig and Ellyna without so much as drawing his shortsword, Diem couldn't help but wonder if he could live like the undead swordsman—true to himself, and yet immersed within the happiness of human bonds. _Unlikely,_ his mind had screamed at him. But once that doubt had been planted in his heart, it could only grow. As that doubt grew, his motivation to fight lessened. He no longer desired victory, even though he would often try to convince himself that he wanted to win. Diem could never lie to himself. He knew in his heart that he no longer cared for victory.

"Hmph. You call that a fight," grunted the golden haired northerner, flexing his biceps self importantly. "You shaddhar khai are so weak."

 _Can't even pronounce my race,_ Diem thought bitterly, not responding to his opponent's goading. His mind wandered again to the small house in the plains, near Cyprus, where he met Razig Krali and his wife, Ellyna. If he had lost to the great warlord and swordsman, that would have been fine. Diem would have left, and trained hard, and come back maybe in a couple of years for round two. If he had lost a limb, that would have been fine. Diem would have tried to work around his new limitation, and become even stronger. But Razig had struck Diem in a way no one had ever struck him before—a strike to the heart.

 _The way he looked at me,_ the grey skinned duelist thought bitterly, gripping the hilt of his knife tightly. The Northerner must have thought that the gesture meant Diem still wanted to fight, for he roared and rushed recklessly towards the fallen Shadar-Kai and kicked him in the stomach, sending him flying a couple more meters. _The way Razig Krali looked at me...with such condescension, as if everything I had worked towards was so meaningless. As if it wasn't even worth facing me._

Razig's wife had insisted that Diem stay a couple of days, and so he did. During his stay, he and Razig conversed many times. The undead warlord was not much of a talker, but the few words they exchanged during each conversation spoke volumes to the duelist, always leaving him feeling empty inside after the encounter ended. He recalled one such conversation.

"Why don't you want to fight me," Diem had asked, sipping the tea the undead's beautiful wife had made. Rumor had it that she too was a great archer, former princess of some tribe of Plainsmen.

Razig had shrugged his bony shoulders. "Not worth fighting," he spoke honestly and abruptly.

Diem had stood up, slightly annoyed at the warlord's nonchalance. "Strong you may be, legendary in your own right, Razig Krali, but you are severely underestimating me. Or can it be that you are simply afraid of losing your title as the strongest swordsman?"

The undead looked at him with dark, hollow eyes, and Diem knew his goading would not work on the experienced warrior. "You know full well that your words are meaningless, even as you speak them," Razig replied simply, shrugging again. "You know full well that I am not afraid of you."

Diem had to agree, at least internally, that the warlord spoke the truth. "Then why am I not worth fighting," he pressed?

"Because your strength lies here." Razig had touched his ropy bicep in response. And here. "He tapped the side of his head. "Not here." Razig touched his chest.

"What do you mean? You mean my soul is weak?" Diem had barked an incredulous laugh. "How could you come to such a biased conclusion? You don't even know me."

"Diem S. Sky. The only man known to train with Shimmering Ophelia, the only male to have been welcomed into the Vestal Lands. You are rather famous yourself." Razig shook his head. "Too bad you did not pick up Shimmering Ophelia's greatest strength."

"Shimmering Ophelia follows the Goddess unquestioningly. I cannot be so close minded."

"No," Razig's scratchy voice rose into something of a cough. "She does not follow the Goddess. She believes in the Goddess. She trusts in the Goddess. She is true to herself. Are you?"

"Yes," Diem had replied emphatically. "Of course I am true to myself!"

But Razig was done talking.

 _Of course I'm true to myself,_ Diem assured himself again, as his mind fell back to reality, back to the burning sands upon which he lay, motionless, defeated by an enemy he would not have looked twice at a couple years ago. _But then why do I feel like such a con artist? So...artificial? What is the true me? What is true strength? I have my techniques!_ Diem collected himself and stood up, staggering slightly and clutching his stomach. _My techniques are my truest strength!_

But a voice, Razig's hollow, condescending, empty voice, responded in his heart. _Are they really? Then why are you so unhappy with them?_

"I..." Diem stuttered. And then a giant muscled hand smacked him in the face, tossing him back on the ground. _Damn, I spaced out,_ the shadar-kai mused detachedly, seeing the pain his body was receiving moreso than really feeling it.

"Great Hero Hammond has had enough of this," the golden haired northerner announced disgustedly, referring to himself in the third person (a common quirk of many northerners). And Diem was left alone—defeated and alone.

 _Great Hero Hammond can go fuck himself,_ the duelist pouted childishly, rolling over on his side. And in that position he stayed, as noon passed to night, musing, thinking about his recent string of losses, about his conversations with the legendary Razig Krali, and about his past.

 _If only Shimmering Ophelia could see me now,_ he thought bitterly. _I've let her down. I left the Battle Maidens seeking to prove my strength, even though Ophelia cautioned me that I had not completed my training. But I left anyways, and this is where I've ended up. But I can't go back._ Diem noticed his lip was bleeding. He'd been so lost in thought that he had been entirely unconscious of that fact that he had been biting it hard for most of the duration of his musings. _I can't let her see me like this. No, I no longer have anywhere to go back to. It's over. I'm no longer the man I used to be. I have to accept that fact now. I give up._

"Interesting."

Diem sat up, ignoring his wounds, pure surprise kicking him into motion. "Who are you," he called, trying to strain his neck to look around. "And...well, where are you?" The voice Diem had heard was that of an old lady's, deep and melodic, but slightly shaky, as if the vocal cords had grown weak with age. "I'm going crazy," Diem muttered to himself, ready to fall back in the sand.

"That may be true. After all, you allowed that big northerner to beat you, even though you could easily have bested him."

"How do you know that?" Diem sighed. "Whatever," he said offhandedly. "Fifty percent chance that you're just an imaginary voice in my head. So you probably know everything about me, since you are me."

"I am a witch. And I can tell you lost to that northerner on purpose because you exude an aura that I have rarely felt from anyone. You are...legendary." The voice paused, unsure of whether or not it had phrased that statement properly. But Diem understood. He was, after all, marked for greatness, before Razig had destroyed his drive, his motivation. His beliefs. He had heard Shimmering Ophelia utter a similar phrase during his stay in the Vestal Lands, which now seemed like so long ago.

Diem was silent for a time. "If you're really a witch, and not just some imaginary voice, then prove it," he goaded finally. He pointed to his stomach. "I think I broke a rib. Can you heal me?" Silence from the other end. "Hah, I thought not." Diem sighed. "But it was worth a try. Damn."

More silence. _I guess I'm alone, then,_ Diem thought morosely. _Oh well._ But then he felt a warmth near his stomach. Looking down, he saw a faint amethyst light shining on his abdomen, and on the ground…the silhouette shadow of a hand! The duelist said nothing, watching in wonder as the light continued shining in the dark, until at last it was gone. He felt no pain—indeed, sitting up, he could feel his rib was fully mended.

"Don't ask me to do that again." The disembodied voice of the mysterious old witch sounded tired. "Casting magic from afar is tiresome work, and you were not so badly injured."

"You helped me so that I would believe you were not some figment of my imagination, huh." Diem nodded. "Thank you for the help." He did not take the kindness of others lightly. The fact that the witch helped him meant a lot to Diem. Although the shadar-kai pretended not to admit it, in truth he was always, on some level, looking for kindness from others, and always unexpectedly touched when he by some chance found it.

"And I have more to offer you."

"More?"

"Yes. A chance to regain what you have lost, and to additionally gain something you have never had. What exactly you will gain I do not know, for I do not know what you are searching for. But this much I can tell you. If you wish to find answers, come find me. I know of a journey you can take to help find whatever it is you seek."

"But you don't even know what it is I am looking for." Diem could almost hear the witch nod.

"You are of course correct. I do not even know your name. But I have the gift of Sight, nameless duelist, and two things I have seen. First, I have Seen you, which means that you are the one whose fate may most naturally intertwine with my own. You understand, I do not choose whom I See—the Sight chooses the person I visit, because it knows something more about my future than I do. And more about yours, too."

"So the Sight is somehow like a fishing wire picking out compatible fates? Sounds convenient," Diem muttered, clearly dubious of the witch's assertions. "Nonetheless," he continued, before the frail female voice had a chance to respond, "rest assured. I will accept this journey you ask of me."

A moment of heavy silence hung over the desert, condensed in the warm, dry night. "You are that desperate," the disembodied voice whispered finally. "I pity you."

Diem nodded. "I have nowhere to go anymore, and no goals that I can realistically fulfill. Your Sight, or whatever, has chosen poorly it seems."

"Not so." Diem looked incredulously in the direction of where he thought the voice may have been coming from.

"So you do not think your sight has chosen the wrong person for your epic journey, even after seeing me be defeated by some no-name musclebound fool?"

"You strike me, right now, as the setting sun. But you were not always setting. I believe that through this journey, you will rise into your fullest once again. Of course, I have no way of knowing. But often, this is how the Fates work when it comes to Sight, and intertwined futures. And things of this nature." The old voice took a pensive pause. "Do you understand what I am telling you?"

Diem shook his head, slightly annoyed at the old witch's ramblings. "Only that you are playing the part of a merchant, trying to sell me on a trip that I have already agreed to make."

"Ah, practical until the end, I see. Very well then. May I have your name, my dear?"

"I'm not your dear," Diem muttered. "My name is Diem S. Sky."

"Well met, Diem. Rest well tonight, for tomorrow your journey begins."

"Hey!" Diem called out, worried the voice would disappear prematurely. "You have yet to tell me your name, for I would like to know the name of the one to whom I am indebted. For healing my injury, I mean."

"Gene De Femilgia," the voice responded. "And now my Sight comes to an end for the night. Until next time, Diem S. Sky, I bid you farewell."


End file.
